The First Mountain Man (34 page)

5

“They's noonin' by a crick,” Dupre reported back. “So careless you'd think they was havin' a picnic.” The day was cold, the approaching winter already opening its hand and closing chilly fingers over the high country. The men had awakened to a hard freeze that morning. They night before they knew they were close upon the outlaws and had elected to keep a cold camp, so the smell of wood smoke would not give them away. “They got a fire big enough to roast a bear. So's I reckon we could build us a small one for coffee.”

“Bum and them's got a-plenty,” Preacher said. “And it's already fixed. No point in usin' up any of our supplies when come the sundown, them down yonder ain't gonna have no further need for vittles.”

“You make a good point,” Nighthawk said. “Perhaps it is you who should be the judge.”

“You be better. You can look sterner than me.”

“Of course. You are correct. I also am much more handsome and certainly I present a much more regal appearance.”

“Wagh!” Beartooth said. “He's got you on that, Preacher.”

“English judges wear wigs,” Jim said. “I seen a drawin' of 'em in a book one time. Them pigtails of Hawk's fit right in, seems to me.”

“You be right,” Beartooth agreed. “When do we move agin them murderers?”

“Right now,” Preacher said, and stood up.

Leo decided the coffee was just about ready and dumped in cold water to settle the grounds. Suddenly he had the feeling of eyes on him. He looked around. He could see nothing.

“What's the matter with you?” Bull asked.

Leo shook his head. “Nothin'. Just had a shiverin' sort of feelin', that's all.”

“That meat do smell good,” Jack said. “I be hongry for a fact.”

Bum was all stretched out comfortable on his stolen blankets, half asleep. He opened his eyes to the warbling of a songbird. Sure was pretty He cut his eyes and saw something that was a lot less pretty. Beartooth, standing grinning at him from the bushes. The man had a Hawken rifle in his big hands, the muzzle pointed straight at Bum. Bum cut his eyes to Jack Harris. The man was squatting motionless, the muzzle of a pistol placed at the back of his head. Bum could see Leo staring up at Preacher, the mountain man holding him in check with a pistol. Bull was looking into the muzzle of a rifle held by Dupre.

“Well now,” Preacher said. “That meat do smell good. So let's eat it up and then we'll settle down to business.”

The outlaws were trussed up and dumped on the ground. They offered no resistance, and up to this point, no argument.

Preacher and his friends ate the meat and drank the coffee. Bum and what remained of his band lay on the ground and watched in silence.

Bum finally broke the silence. “Go ahead and shoot us, you sons of bitches! What the hell are you waitin' on?”

“Speak for yourself!” Leo said. “I'd a-soon delay the grave, if possible.”

“The three that made it to the fort and the missionaries' church I tooken out,” Preacher informed the outlaws. “They was a scabby bunch, they was.”

“You recall their names?” Bum asked.

“Waller and Dipper was the only names I heard. Don't know who the other one was. Don't make no difference. He's just as dead as the others.”

“You never gonna get us to no court of law,” Bull boasted. “And since you ain't lawmen, what you're doin' is agin the law. You ain't got no right to hold us agin our will.”

“You're wrong on all counts,” Dupre told him. “We fixin' to have us a court of law. Right here.” He pointed at Nighthawk. “And yonder sits the judge.”

“A goddamn Injun?” Leo hollered.

“You best watch your mouth,” Preacher told him. “It don't pay to make the judge mad.”

Nighthawk rose and went to his pack horse, taking out a buffalo robe and slipping it on. He sat down on a large rock and said, “Court's in session. Commence the proceedin's.”

“Who goes first?” Dupre asked. “Me or you, Preacher?”

“Me.” Preacher wiped his mouth and rubbed his greasy hands on his buckskins. He looked at the trussed-up outlaws. “I'm the perser-q-tor.”

“Prosecutor!” Nighthawk corrected.

“That, too,” Preacher said. “Your honor, these here men afore you is scum. They's murderers and rapers and torturers. They ain't fit human bein's.”

“Objection!” Dupre said.

“Hell, I ain't even got goin' good yet!” Preacher yelled.

“This is an outrage!” Jack Harris hollered. “I demand a real lawyer and a real judge. Not no goddamn Injun!”

“Objection overruled,” Nighthawk said. “Proceed, Preacher.”

“Where was I?”

“Not fit human beings.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. Your honor, these here four snakeheads is about as low as a human person can get. Buzzard puke is easier to look upon than these four ...”

“I object!” Dupre hollered.

“Hell, I do too!” Bull squalled.

“All of you be quiet,” Nighthawk said. “What is your objection, counselor?”

“Say what?”

“Counselor. That's what you are at this moment. A counselor. Now what is your objection?”

“I ain't really got one. Hell, I agree with everything Preacher said. But ain't I s'posed to object ever'time he says something? I seen a trial back ... oh, twenty-five year ago, I reckon it was. Judge had him a wooden hammer and was beatin' on the table and hollerin' 'bout half the time. And one or the other of them lawyers was always objectin' 'bout somethin'.”

“You are supposed to object when the prosecution brings up some point that you disagree with,” Nighthawk told him.

“Oh. Well, hell. I might as well lay down and take a nap, if that's the case.”

“No, you don't!” Bum yelled.

“I got to pee!” Leo bellered.

“Order in the court!” Nighthawk thundered. “Does the prosecution have anything else to say?”

“I say we hang the bastards,” Preacher said.

“Yeah, me, too,” Dupre said.

“You can't say that!” Nighthawk told him. “You're supposed to be defending these no-good, sorry, good-for-nothin's.” He caught himself. “Strike that from the record and the jury will disregard my comments.”

Jim nudged Beartooth. “That's us.”

“Why disregard it?” Beartooth asked. “It's all true.”

“What record?” Jim asked.

“Somebody's s'posed to be writin' all this down,” Leo yelled.

“Well, don't look at me,” Jim protested. “I can't write.”

“Stand the accused up before me,” Nighthawk said.

The four were jerked to their feet. Jack yelled, “This ain't no legal court of law. I demand a judge. I got rights.”

“I sentence the four of you to be hanged by the neck until you are dead, dead, dead, dead,” Nighthawk said. “And may God have mercy on your souls.”

“Halp!” Bull bellered.

“Get the ropes,” Preacher said.

“I have to dismiss the court,” Nighthawk told him.

“Well, dismiss it,” Preacher replied.

“Let's get on with the hangin',” Jim said.

“Don't be in such a rush!” Bum squalled.

“I thought a court of law was supposed to show mercy and compassion?” Jack asked.

“We have the right to an appeal,” Bull said.

“Now, that is true,” Nighthawk said.

“How do we go about that?” Dupre asked. “This is gettin' right complicated.”

“I think the prisoners got to go before another judge,” Beartooth said.

“We ain't got no other judge,” Preacher said.

Jim looked at the four. “I reckon that means that you boys is outta luck.”

“Halp!” Jack bellered.

“Now what do we do?” Dupre asked.

“Hawk's got to dismiss the pro-ceedin's,” Jim said. “Soon as he does that, I'll go fetch the ropes.”

“I hate ever' damn one of you people!” Bull yelled.

“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Jack reminded the group.

“But He ain't here,” Preacher said. “So we're actin' in His place.”

“Court is adjourned,” Nighthawk said, then frowned. “I think that's the correct term.”

“Halp!” Leo hollered.

“They funnin' with us,” Jack said, sweat dripping off his face. “They ain't really gonna hang us.”

“That ain't no collar for a tie he's a-fixin' over yonder,” Bull said.

Jim was tossing four ropes over a limb. The open nooses dangled and swayed ominously.

The four outlaws were hoisted up into their saddles—rather, saddles they had killed the trappers for—and the nooses placed around their necks.

“You boys wanna pray?” Preacher asked, meeting their scared eyes and lingering for a moment at each man. His own eyes were hard as flint.

“Swing wide the gates to Heaven!” Leo shrieked.

“That'll be the day,” Dupre muttered.

“Lord, I'm a-comin' home!” Bull shouted.

“No, you goin' in the other direction,” Beartooth corrected.

“Forgive me of all my sins!” Jack Harris moaned. “All the men and women and children I've kilt and robbed and raped and done all them other bad things to.”

“Disgusting,” Nighthawk said.

“Goddamn you to the fiery pits of Hell, Preacher!” Bum Kelley said.

“Odd thing for a man in your position to say,” Preacher told him, then whapped the horse on the butt. Bum Kelley and his bunch dangled and kicked and twisted and swung.

The men waited until the outlaws had kicked their last, then lowered them down and dumped them in a shallow ravine, collapsing rocks over the bodies.

“You wanna say something over the tomb?” Dupre asked Preacher.

Preacher thought about that. “Yeah. I do.” He took off his hat and the others did the same, none of them not knowing quite what to expect from their friend. Preacher was famous for a lot of things, including his sometimes profane and always odd eulogies.

Preacher took a breath and said, “Here lies Jack and Leo and Bull and Bum. They run their race and now it's done. They was sorry crap without no class. So bend over, Satan, and let 'em kiss your ass!”

6

Theirs was a solitary breed, and a breed that regrettably did not last long in American history. Progress pushed them aside. But on this late fall day in the year of 1837, the four mountain men lingered long over coffee that morning. No one had put it into words, but all knew that here was where the trail forked.

“Where you gonna winter, Jim?” Dupre asked.

“I got me a little cabin over on the Flathead. It was right snug last time I seen it. I reckon it's still there. I'll soon know. You?”

“I get on right good with the Nez Perce. They was a fine-lookin' squaw lost her man last time I was through there. I told her I'd be back 'fore the snow flew. I reckon it's about time to head that way. Nighthawk?”

“My grandfather is old. I will go to his lodge and we will talk of things past. He will die this winter, I am thinking. I want to see that he is buried properly. Bear?”

“I'm gonna look up Lobo and see if he's still livin' with them buffalo wolves. If he ain't, I might winter with him and let him put me to sleep each night listenin' to his damn lies. Preacher?”

“I don't know,” Preacher tossed out the dregs from his cup. “I got the restless flung on me. I might head south. Then again, I might head east. I just don't know.”

“You best be makin' up your mind, ol' hoss,” Beartooth told him. “The snow's fixin' to fly soon.”

“Yeah. I know it.” He began rolling his blankets and gathering up his kit.

Within minutes, the mountain men had packed up and were in the saddle.

“I wish I could say all this has been fun,” Preacher said, “but I'd be lyin' and that's something I never do.”

“Wagh!” Dupre said. “It'll be a relief not to have to smell your stinkin' feet.”

“What will be a greater relief,” Nighthawk said, “is not having to listen to Beartooth's stomach grumble when he does not eat eight times a day.”

“Or listen to Dupre try to sing those awful French songs,” Jim said.

The men smiled at each other for a moment, and then rode their separate ways without another word.

That afternoon, Preacher topped a rise. Careful not to skyline himself to unfriendly eyes, he paused and looked westward, his thoughts of Melody.

“Mayhaps I should have partook of them charms of hern, Hammer. I might have the re-grets about not doin' that some cold winter's night. But I 'spect we'll be back that way 'fore too long. I don't know why I say that, I just feel it.” He settled his hat on his head and lifted the reins. “Well, good horse, you wanna go see some country we ain't seen afore?”

Hammer snorted and shook his head.

“Well, let's us go then.”

And the mountain man called Preacher began another ride into the pages of history.

 

Smoke Jensen was a towering Western hero. Now his
two freewheeling
,
long-lost nephews, Ace and Chance Jensen
,
are blazing a legendary trail of their own.

 

Riverboat gambling is a blast, until hotheaded
Chance finds out just what he won in his final hand
against a Missouri River gambler named Haggarty.
Chance's “prize” is a beautiful Chinese slave girl
named Ling. The twins want to set Ling free
and keep their cash, but at Fort Benton, Ling gives
them the slip, robbing them blind. When they hunt
her down in Rimfire, Montana, she's with
Haggarty, lining up their next mark.

 

 

Ace and Chance want payback. So does hard case
Leo Belmont, who's come all the way from
San Francisco with a grudge and a couple of
kill-crazy hired guns. Belmont wants revenge,
and Ace and Chance are in the way.

 

 

Soon the boys are fighting alongside Ling and
Haggarty. Because it doesn't matter now who's right
and who's wrong—blazing guns and flying lead
are laying down the law ...

 

 

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